Spanish views from a small town

After having planned to go in March, then pushing it to April, then intending to go in June, I have finally returned to the hair dresser's.  Seven months after the last trip to the scissors, my hair had gone rogue. For the last month and a half, I've had to pin it up with a hair comb. My bangs had grown down to my lips, and one day that I forgot to put mousse in my hair, they became a perpetual curtain. Frustrated, I grabbed the kitchen scissors, and lopped off enough to leave my eyes clear of fur.  My hair dresser accepts walk-ins without any problem. I check out the time of day she has few people, walk in, and ask if she can cut my hair, or cut and color my hair if I'm feeling adventurous and don't mind spending over an hour with a towel wrapped around my upper body, drying any drops that might dribble down my neck. But the devil virus has changed things. Already, I had been planning to just drop in yesterday afternoon, after classes, but then I had a thought. W...

I decided that, after six months, it was time to go put some color on my hair and cut the strands that never stay where they're supposed to. So, on this rainy morning I went into town, drove around cursing that for such a small town there's no place to park, waited for a rain squall to pass, and walked up the street to the haven of gossip. Because that's what a hair salon is. Just like a barber shop but with slightly different topics bandied about.  Conversation one: "I wouldn't use a hair iron if I were you." "But it's the only way to style my hair the way I like it." "No, you can also use a brush and hair dryer. It'll take longer, but it won't hurt your hair as much. See how dry the ends are?" Conversation two: "So they called me and asked me if I could wash the linen for the hostel this weekend because they were going to have people later this week." "And how did the clothes dry with this damp?"...